


Weighted Sorrow

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Getting Together, M/M, References to Depression, Sad Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, dealing with sorrow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:40:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24697732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "There’s a pressure building, somewhere behind his eyes, its been there for days, slowly growing. At first it was almost unnoticeable, only noticeable in those quiet moments where there was nothing to distract from it."Geralt sometimes has some difficulty in recognizing his feelings. And accepting them, acting on them... really just dealing with them in any half-way decent way.It can become a problem at times, like when he is stuck traveling with a certain individual who tends to elicit... a lot of feelings.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 4
Kudos: 101





	1. Chapter 1

There’s a pressure building, somewhere behind his eyes, its been there for days, slowly growing. At first it was almost unnoticeable, only noticeable in those quiet moments where there was nothing to distract from it.

quiet moments, the kind that happen at 3am, lying on his bedroll, half-awake half asleep, trying not to think about the fact you aren’t actually asleep, as once you do that it breaks the spell, wakes you up all over again.

Those were the moments he felt it, a tingling weight, right on the edges of his mind, painful, but ignorable.

Nothing to worry about.

Nothing to dwell on.

Until it grew. Slowly, so slowly he didn’t realise it was growing to begin with, moments of realisation still so few and far between. Didn’t notice anything amiss when he felt it at other times, when he paused to take a breath. When he let himself relax for a moment, admire the pretty bar maid delivering his drinks, catch the light just right, shining through the trees.

It was an annoyance by then, an annoyance but still ignorable.

He would note it with a groan, pinch his brow, annoyed and irritated. Write it off, as exhaustion, not enough sleep, too much work.

Nothing to worry about at all.

Doesn’t let himself think about how present it is becoming.

A constant background buzz, pushing at his mind.

He tries not to, tries to shake it off, tires not to acknowledge it.

It’s easy, at times. In the mist of a battle, sword swinging, bodies covered in blood. Easy to lose it in the general surrounding chaos of the rest of his life.

And yet…

Sometimes it starts to feel unavoidable. Undeniable. The ever-present weight, pushing on the back of his eyes.

When it’s there, not just in the quiet pauses, but everywhere else as well.

He catches himself, staring off into the distance, mid conversation. Some poor man, spilling his life story in a plea for help. He should be listening, gathering information, deciding if it’s a job he wants to take or not.

Instead he realises he hasn’t heard a word the man said, too focused on the beating agonising pressure within his head.

Still, it always seems strongest in the quiet moments. when the world should be nice, should be good and still and gentle.

The pause, the exhale. The breath taken right after he catches the wisps of a smile on Jaskier’s face when they stop to watch the evening sun slowly sink below a grassy hill. His eyes flicking away from the bard’s face to stare at the land bathed in warm glow, skin painted pale pink and red and soft.

Gods, it should be nice. It should be soft and true and… gentle. 

But instead…

He can feel it then, so strong, so present. The weight, baring down, pushing against his skull.

It’s strange, in some odd, paradoxical way, it’s often in those moments it seems both the strongest and yet sometimes no longer there at all.

Sometimes it would vanish, just for a second, in some of those moments. They were brief. Always brief, and seemingly so… unimportant. 

A passing moment, mid-conversation, a second of laughter, light and airy, free from the pressure. Or the few seconds right when his eye meets Jaskier’s over the rim of an ale glass, the hint of a smile pulling on the corner of his lips.

And yet still…

Sometimes, that moment of contact, the moment that should be the brief pause before the storm is when he feels it the strongest. As though his brain has already predicted what’s to come, the moment the gaze drops away, the moment Jaskier turns, flags down the pretty barmaid and makes some half clever attempt at flirtation.

And instead of a second of stillness, the pressure of the world hits him even harder.

He finds himself wondering at it, early one morning. He had risen early, feet leaving prints in the light frost as he makes his way from the camp to relieve himself.

The day is cold, crisp. He watches his breath on the air, slowly wandering back to camp.

He takes a moment, resting against a tree on the edges of their small clearing, breathes in the sharp, clean air. It’s only just dawn, the world still a dusty, dark grey/blue. Detail-less. As still as possible.

He lets himself soak in it for a moment. Just existing in the cold morning air.

His eyes fall on the shapeless form of Jaskier, wrapped up tight against the early winter chill.

He lets the faintest of smiles grace his face. Feels a swell of warmth, fighting against the biting cold.

Before as quickly as the feeling of peace had arrived, it fades, his mind shifts, warmth replaced, with that ever so familiar pressure. 

The moment now tinged with pain and something else, something he struggles to put his finger on. A familiar, sinking, swelling push, against his skull, against his heart…

This time he can’t help but wonder why, why this beating presser is building within his head.

He presses a tired hand to his brow, wanting it to end. To be over with. and if not that… then to at least understand why he was suffering so.

He rubs at his forehead, doing something he hadn’t done before, dwelling on the pushing weigh. Trying to tease it apart. Understand.

It clicks together so suddenly, steals the breath from his lips, sorrow. He’s feeling sorrow.

He sucks in another breath, almost welcoming in the sting of the cold. Sorrow. It’s… horrifically undeniable, now that he’s put a name to it. So obvious and clear in his mind.

The only question that remains is… why. 

He realises he has no idea, no explanation, no answer to the wave of sorrow, blanketing his existence. The wave of sorrow that he now realises has been there for such a long time.

He doesn’t know where it came from.

He doesn’t know what to do next.

Jaskier shifts, not yet rising, but rolling over, snuggling further into his bedroll. And the spell is broken, he finds himself snapped from his thoughts. A new distraction offered he sets about stoking back to life the fire, planning out breakfast.

Pushing down the sorrow, swallowing it down. Just because he has a name to the feeling… that doesn’t mean he needs to dwell on it, focus on it.

No. 

He has work to do. He as much time for sorrow as he had for the nameless pressing pressure that had haunted him all these past months.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s harder, now that he’s aware of it.

Now he’s put a name to it.

Harder to ignore, push down and disregard.

As though naming it made it more… real. More present.

Shifted it from a distant pressing weight to the front of his mind, flooding his brain, his existence.

It seems as though everything he does, every moment, every second, is stained with it now, soaked and saturated in shades of sorrow. He can’t escape it, the beating pressure, the sinking weight, crashing around his skull, sinking low in his chest.

It becomes a distraction, dare he say… an issue. It’s small at first, out on the trail, Jaskier trips, stumbling over his own feet, laughs. He laughs as well, feeling the pressure begin to swell almost as soon as the sound leaves his mouth.

The overwhelming feeling of sadness. Of inevitability. The knowledge that this brief second of light won’t last.

His fingers fumble, uncoordinated hands letting go of the reins, he has to scramble to regain them.

Jaskier laughs at this as well.

The sound is almost enough to offset the pressure once more.

Almost.

It only grows from there. Hitting him seemingly whenever it pleased.

The worst was mid battle, sword swinging down, so focused on his actions, he would have thought there would be no space for pressure.

And yet there it suddenly was, pressing in. A deep feel of… horror, hopelessness. What did it matter, killing one creature, when so many more would remain? What would it truly change?

He feels the sword tip, unbalanced, hilt almost sliding from his hands. Part of him panicked, shouting to grab hold, regain his grip, part wondering why it matters, why he cares.

The sharp pain in his shoulder brings him back, cutting through the fog, through the beating pressure, back to reality. He holds firm, follows through with the swing.

Tries not to think about how pleasant it was, afterwards. That moment of true distraction. When all he had to focus on was the real, physical blow to his body.

How sharp it was. How present.

How it managed to completely overtake the constant pressure within his mind.

He tries not to think about it. Knows it’s dangerous. Knows it’s bad.

He doesn’t let himself do anything stupid.

Well, not too stupid.

But maybe… maybe he finds himself getting sloppy again on occasion. Maybe he is slower than he should be, to bandage some wounds. Crueller, too, in their bandaging. Pulling hard on the skin, rubbing and scratching and stretching it all, maybe more than is needed.

Maybe he finds himself relishing the feeling of a heavy hand, yanking closed stitches. 

Gods. He knows it isn’t good.

But once again he finds he doesn’t know what to do about it. 

He wonders if Jaskier has noticed.

Sometimes he thinks Jaskier must have, when he catches Jaskier watching him carefully out the corner of his eye. When he huffs at Geralt’s latest wounds, looks as though he wants to say something, bring up the trickle of blood slowly dripping down the Witcher’s brow.

It all comes to head, only a matter of weeks later, after a particularly… unruly job.

He doesn’t let himself think about the fact it probably could have been quicker. Cleaner. That there was little reason for a number of his wounds to exist at all.

He’s tired, exhausted. The beat of exhaustion and pain fully overwhelming any other feelings.

He just wants to stumble into their shared room, stitch up the sluggishly bleeding wound on his shoulder, sink in the pain of it, let the sensation distract him till he fell asleep.

Simple. Easy. Nothing else needed.

It’s late, He expects Jaskier to be already asleep, or failing that, perhaps out, indulging himself, having found some worthwhile enjoyment in this backwater town after all. 

He certainly didn’t expect to find Jaskier clearly waiting for him. pacing the room, lantern still lit, bed undisturbed, proving the man hadn’t even tried to get some sleep.

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, taking in the site of him. Jaskier sighs, harsh and heavy, nods towards the bed, “sit.”

“Jaskier…”

“Sit.”

He relents. Sits, notices the medical supplies already lined up on the side table. Jaskier moves over, scooping up a clean rag before Geralt can, gently pressing it to Geralt’s wound.

They don’t speak, the silence is… strange. Normally he likes to think he relishes silence, comfortable, peaceful, soft. But now it’s… uncomfortable. Unnerving. He’s so accustomed to Jaskier’s endless sound, used to filtering it out, letting it become almost pleasant background noise.

Jaskier is gentle. Too gentle, hands drifting lightly over the skin, brushing away the blood and dirt, so soft and careful.

He hates it. Hates the feeling. He wants the sting. The harsh tug of rough skin and the ache of a new forming bruise.

Jaskier gives him none of that.

He wants to snap. Say something. Knows there’s nothing he could say that wouldn’t seem… bad. So he doesn’t. He stays quiet. Endures the soft touch.

It’s not till after, till he’s lying in bed, feeling the dull beat of sorrow return that he realises, despite the lack of pain, he had not felt the beating pressure while Jaskier had been bandaging his wounds.

He can’t resist testing it. Seeing if it will happen again. The next time it’s a gash across his chest, shallow, probably only just needing stitches.

He lets Jaskier bandage it without complaint.

Tries not to think about how the brush of the bard’s hands feel against his skin, how… real it is. How present.

Because once he thinks about it… once he acknowledges it… it’s gone. Replaced with that ever so familiar pressure. 

It continues, they fall into some new routine.

He would go out, take a few hits, scramble back and let Jaskier bandage his wounds.

Until Jaskier calls him out. Until Jaskier points out how often he is crawling back in, blood dripping onto the floor from a new open wound.

So, he tries. Returns to trying. Taking care to avoid the blows. 

He worries he will miss it. Worries what the lack of pain, the lack of… aftercare will do to him.

But if anything… he slowly realises the soft touches had begin to expand without him noticing. Beyond the bandaging, beyond the stitches. He realises they have begun to bleed into the rest of life, soft moments of… connection.

A hand trailed over his when Jaskier passes him his ale, a brush against the back as Jaskier slides by.

They are all so soft, gentle, _real_.

It feels as though he’s balancing on a tightrope, having these moments of softness, gentleness.

But the moment he thinks about it, the moment he acknowledges the lack of… pressure, the stillness is gone. Replaced with that familiar pain.

He’s not really sure how it happens. How it… evolves further. How brushes of contact become fingers intertwined with his at the table, a feather light kiss against his brow, when he inevitably stumbles in bloody and beaten once more. 

Until, somehow, somehow without even really noticing it becomes proper kisses, soft peaks of good luck before he leaves, to deep, passionate moments of affection, stolen in the still nights between the chaos.

Somehow the soft stillness seems to overtake the rest. The moments of quiet have become more common then the beating pain.

Except for when he fucks up.

When he thinks about it. When he realises it’s absence, and brings it flooding back, twice as strong as before.

He realises all this early one morning. Soft spring sun trailing through the crack in the inn room curtain, so gentle on Jaskier’s face. He trails a hand down the bard’s cheek, watches his eyelashes flutter, ever so lightly at the touch.

It hits him all at once.

How quiet his world had become. How… soft.

He sucks in a breath. Not wanting to deal with what’s about to come next. He feels it, on the edges of his mind, feels the drop.

Sucks in another breath. hand dropping, rolling away, to stare at the wall, feeling the pain closing in once again.

He lies there for a moment, breathing, feeling the building presser behind his eyes. Trying to fight through the worst of it, push it down enough that he can continue on with the day.

Feels a hand sneak around his chest. The press of a warm body behind him.

It doesn’t disappear, the beating, pressing sorrow.

But it… eases. Lightens, fading slightly, in light of the familiar touch.

But it’s okay, that it isn’t gone.

Because this time he knows it will go.

That the stillness will return, the pressure will fade and return to quiet.

That the pressure may return. And return again.

But it’s okay.

Because it will fade again. 

And the stillness, the quiet will return. 

For once, he is sure of it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this went... not as expected.

**Author's Note:**

> I just really like the idea of Geralt's feelings being like... very physical because of how bad he is at acknowledging them on an emotional level, idk.


End file.
